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Countdown for blast off. X minus five, four, three, two, X minus one, fire.
From the far horizons of the unknown come transcribed tales of new dimensions in time and space.
These are stories of the future, adventures in which you'll live in a million could-be years
on a thousand maybe worlds. The National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with
Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine presents X minus one.
One. Tonight, the old die rich by H.L. Gold.
The uniformed cop at the door told me to get lost, but Lou Pape spotted me and told the man to let me in.
It was a shabby room, they always are. There was a woman on the bed, an old woman with white hair,
thin enough to show the tight drawn scalp. The medical examiner was going over her as if
she were a side of beef that you had to put a federal grade stamp on.
When are you going to stop taking this ham friend of yours around to these cases,
Sergeant, just to gratify his morbid curiosity? Forget about Weldon, Doc. What did she die of?
Not eating, malnutritional. Oh, now look, Doc, in the top bureau drawer she had bank books showing
$32,000 from five different banks. Now she had the price of a meal. Malnutrition induced by
senile psychosis. They starve because they're less afraid of death than digging into their savings.
I don't know, Doc. It doesn't feel right to me. Listen, Weldon, just because you get up on a stage
or on some half-baked television show and make believe you're 70 years old doesn't qualify you
as an expert on gerontology. Maybe not, Doc, but I went bald at 25 and I've been playing old men
ever since. There's a lot more to it than just shuffling around and talking in a high-crack voice.
Yeah, there hasn't been an actor since Odor Skinner. Maybe, but the way I work I have to get
inside the character. I have to decide when he was born, how he got along with his father, where he
went to school, what he thinks of women, everything about a character. There isn't a one of them these
days can make themselves heard past the fifth row. Look, look, I'm serious. Now I've tried imagining
myself growing weak from hunger. I've tried to think of not even spending a nickel to keep me from
dying. Well, I just don't believe it. It isn't right. I don't feel it. Well, lucky for me I don't
have to feel these things inside of me because I'm a doctor and not an actor. Sergeant, malnutrition
induced by senile psychosis. I'll order the wicker basket from Bellevue. So long Barrymore.
Well, he's right Mark. We get a couple of these cases every year. Some old bat starving to death
with $17,000 in old bills pinned on his union suit. Turns up all the time. Al, it doesn't feel
right. Well, he knows his business. But he doesn't know old people. I do. It isn't easy to starve to
death. Not when you can buy day old bread at the bakery or wilted vegetables the grocer's ready to
throw out. Anyone who's willing to eat that stuff can stay alive from day to day. Hunger is a, well,
it's a pretty potent instinct. Maybe they get too sick to go out after old bread or wilted vegetables.
It takes weeks to die of starvation. Did you ever try starving for weeks Lou? No, did you? Well,
the point is somebody would find out a janitor or a landlord somebody and they'd get them to a
hospital. Ah, forget about it Mark. Can't argue with it. Here there were five bank books. $32,000.
Yeah, she took good care of them. They look almost new. Sure she did. Most important thing in the
world, huh? April 23rd, 1907. $150. The ink's pretty dark. Shouldn't it be faded? She probably
never took it out in the light. Anyone ever think of testing the ink? What for? Banks records always
check. These aren't forgeries if that's what you're thinking. Well, uh, I'd like to get a chemist
working on this ink. Ah, now Mark, look this is strictly against regulations. I gotta take these
books down to the squad room and sign them in. Pretty dark ink for 1907. Well, it's about five
o'clock in the afternoon. I guess I could hold them over tonight and bring them down to the
property clerk in the morning. Good. I know where I can find a chemist. Mr. Weldon, there's no doubt
of it. The ink sample is typical of inks used 50 years ago. Uh, 1907 would be about right. There,
you see Weldon, I was supposed to go to the Trotters tonight. But according to the amount
of oxidation, it's fresh enough to be only a few months old. There, I was right. Well, couldn't that,
uh, could not be the result of unusually careful handling them? Oh, yes, yes, I suppose it could.
An airtight compartment perhaps, sealed with one of the inert gases or a vacuum. That might account
for the lack of normal aging. Lou, you can't keep inert gases in a top bureau drawer in a fourth
floor walk-up. Yeah. Well, it's probably some simple explanation. For fresh ink, half a century old.
I've been going out on these cases for about a year. It's my specialty playing old people,
and when I'm not working television or something on Broadway, I go down to the homes for the aged or
the parks or just watch. Lou Pape's an old friend of mine, and he put me on these malnutrition cases.
But there was more to it than just picking up color and tricks of the trade.
There had to be a better reason for it. You can't just starve to death with upwards of $30,000 right
at your fingertips. Not without at least buying a bowl of soup. I had a run of television that kept
me busy for about a month. Then Lou Pape called me up and asked me to come down to Bellevue.
I'll autopsy if you want it, Sergeant, but I can give you the cause of death right now.
Malnutrition due to senile psychosis. What's up, Lou? Well, Mark, an old guy was found wandering
around down on Hester Street. Suffering from malnutrition, he had $17,000 in cash inside the
lining of his jacket. Is he alive? No, not now he isn't. Doc's got him in the room there, but
he was stumbling around when the cop on the beat picked him up. Did he say anything? Well, he talked
to the cop. Pretty smart young kid. Seems the old man kept talking about money and about his wife.
She must have been dead 20 years. And then just before he went out completely, he did say
something, maybe three or four times. Well, what was it? El Greco. You mean the artist? Well,
that's what Stankiewicz said. He's the officer who picked him up. Said he remembered he'd heard the
name on that television quiz program. You know, the jockey who's the art expert there. El Greco?
Probably some Greek restaurant where he was bumming his meals. Now, you sure you want no top seed,
Sergeant? It's late. I won't get to do it till tomorrow. All right, take your time, Doc. There's
something else, isn't there, Lou? Well, maybe, Mark. We found the old guy's room and there was an ad
thumbtacked over the sink. Nothing too unusual. Yeah? Here it is. Men and women wanted light work
suitable for old people. No references required. Well, I checked it with the lieutenant. He says
to forget it. Says it figures for an old guy to be interested in an ad like that. An old guy with
$17,000 in cash? Yeah. Well, I didn't figure I'd argue with the lieutenant. You mind if I keep it?
No, go ahead.
No, go ahead. It was an old brownstone house in the East 80s. I got in line with the rest of the
applicants. My face was lined with pelotian wrinkles and I wore an antique shiny suit and
rundown shoes. It was a good makeup job. I looked more authentic than the rest of the old timers
who were waiting for the interview. I finally came up to where a woman was asking the questions.
Name? Kernit. Louis Kernit. Kernit.
A dress?
Well, I don't exactly have a place. I've been staying with a fellow down on 12th Street, a friend of mine.
I met him in the cafeteria. A previous occupation?
Well, I worked at a lot of things. Used to be a printer way back. I could handset...
Do you have any references? Family?
No, no, no, ma'am. I haven't got any family. I had a cousin in Salt Lake City but haven't seen him in 30 years or more.
The ad said you didn't need no references.
Well, that's right. Now, will you wait in the other room?
Yes, ma'am. Do I get the job, ma'am?
Just wait in the other room.
I shuffled into the other room and sat down to wait. I concentrated on building a character for Louis Kernit.
If I was going to carry this through, I was going to have to play a better performance than I'd ever given before.
About half an hour, a young woman came into the room. I planned to be dozing the way an old man would,
so my eyes were closed when I heard the door close.
When I opened them, I was looking into the barrel of a.38 revolver.
Are you awake now, Mr. Weldon?
Huh? What?
I don't think you need to carry on anymore. If you need any further convincing, you are Mark Weldon.
You're about 40 years old and you played this same character on television about six weeks ago. You played it fairly well.
Thank you. Would you mind putting down that gun?
Yes. Why did you apply for this position, Mr. Weldon? You're not old, not really.
Well, as a matter of fact, it was a bet. I was having an argument about the method with an actor who trained at the old Vic.
I bet him that I could, well, I could get by off the stage.
Well, don't bother. You've been very busy recently trying to find out why senile psychotics starve themselves to death.
How did you know that?
Well, I happen to know that you've been present at several police investigations into these cases, and you're a good friend of Sergeant Lou Pape.
Well, you know a great deal more about me than I do about you.
Well, I would be glad to enlighten you. My name is May Roberts. I'm the daughter of the late Dr. Anthony Roberts, the physicist,
who was dismissed from the Brookhaven Atomic Energy Laboratory five years ago.
I assume you're connected with these starvation cases, or you wouldn't have known I was investigating them.
Well, that's obvious, isn't it? I'm not afraid of professional detectives, Mr. Weldon. They deal only with facts.
But I don't like amateurs. They guess too much. They don't stick to reality. Consequently, they're likely to get too close to the truth.
Unfortunately, Miss Roberts, I'm nowhere near the truth. I haven't the slightest idea how you're tied in with those starvation-
Well, I intend to show you, Mr. Weldon. I'm happy to announce that you have the job.
Now, look-
Don't move, Mr. Weldon. Oh, incidentally, about fifteen minutes ago, I called Sergeant Pape and told him I was your sister just in from Pittsburgh.
I wanted to get in touch with you very badly, and Sergeant Pape was very sorry. He wished he could help me, but he didn't have the slightest idea where you were.
All right, Mr. Weldon. Right ahead of you, please.
Through that door.
She didn't look like the kind of girl who would get to hold the gun on me as I went down the hall. So that's all I did, just go down the hall.
I climbed up to the fourth floor to a large room. There was a maze of electrical equipment bolted down, tubes and wires and dials.
In the middle of the room was a wire mesh cage. She kept that gun on me steady as a rock. She began to set readings on the dials and flip switches on the control panel.
It'll take about five minutes for the field to build up, Mr. Weldon. Please get in the cathode area.
You mean that wire cage?
Go ahead.
All right, all right.
Now, I wouldn't advise moving now, Mr. Weldon, the wire carries some 10,000 volts. Mr. Weldon, you're curious, and you could turn out to be a great nuisance to me.
As long as you come this far, we might as well both benefit by it.
Benefit?
You'll find a suit of clothes on the floor there. Put it on.
But after all...
Put it on.
I didn't know whether she was bluffing about the electric charge, but the revolver looked real enough so I stripped and changed into the other clothes.
The shoes were a little too tight and pointed. The collar of the shirt was too stiffly starched and too high under my chin. The suit was too narrow with the shoulders and the ankles.
I remember my father had a suit like that. The same shiny blue surge.
All right. In your pocket you'll find a set of envelopes. You'll find a set of instructions on each. Follow them carefully.
I don't get it.
You will. Use the envelopes in the order they are arranged.
What's this all about?
Mr. Weldon, I meant it when I said this could be a benefit to both of us. There's no use explaining anything. You'll find out. And don't try to escape. It can't be done.
All right. Now the field generators are ready.
Look, Miss Roberts, this is absolutely...
Just follow instructions, Mr. Weldon.
I blinked. I was standing outside a bank on a sunny day in spring. I stared at the people passing by. They were dressed like the characters in a 1930 movie.
The women wore long dresses and flowerpot hats. Men had hard straw hats. Suits with narrow shoulders. Cars were square with flat radiators in the front.
There was a trolley car passing by. Suddenly I realized that the last trolley car stopped running in Manhattan years ago. I tried to figure it out. It was New York, all right. I recognized some of the buildings.
First I figured it must have been hypnosis. And then I looked at the first of the envelopes in my pocket. I read it and walked into the bank.
Yes, sir. Our Mr. Golden tells me that you wish to open an account.
Yes, that's right.
Uh-huh. Well, we're very happy to have a new depositor. Very happy indeed. Of course, you realize the institution is in sound condition. Very sound. You didn't worry about all those rumors in this bank. No, sir. Solid. Solid.
Well, then, that's good.
All right. Now then, name? Mark Weldon. You have no address in the city at present?
No. No.
And you're depositing $150?
That's right.
All righty. I'll just check the slip here. $150, right. And the date? May 15th, of course, 1931.
31? The Depression?
Oh, now, Mr. Weldon, this is a very good year for business. This temporary recession is bound to abate. Sound banking policies will see us through. It's just around the corner, you know.
What? What is?
Prosperity. All right, Mr. Weldon, we're very happy to have your account.
I went outside the bank and I stood there in the spring sunlight and let the terror soak into me.
The possibility of the entire situation was gnawing at the edges of my mind. And then suddenly I wasn't there.
It was as fast as blinking. I was outside another bank in the same city. The date on the next envelope was May 29th and it was still 1931.
I made a $75 deposit there and then $100 of another place a few days later, spending a few minutes each time and going ahead anywhere from a couple of days to almost a month.
In 1934, I found myself inside a broker's office.
Very well, Mr. Weldon. As I understand it, you are buying the stock for a Dr. Anthony Roberts.
That's right.
I assume the stock will be in his name?
That's right. I'm just acting as agent. I follow instructions.
Of course, of course. Well, are you sure I can't convince you that you're making a big mistake?
No, no. These are my instructions.
Mr. Weldon, we are a reputable brokerage house and, well, frankly, I feel quite shaky about putting our client's money into this kind of security. There's no future in it.
It's a rare metal for which there is very little use for industrial purposes. Well, however, if your client is adamant...
I have my instructions.
Very well, then. In the name of Dr. Anthony Roberts, 100 shares of Montana uranium. Most unwise. Most unwise.
It went that way about 50-50. I'd deposit money in my own name in various banks at other times.
Then I'd buy a stock or make a bet for Mayor Roberts.
On June 21st, 1932, I bet Jack Sharkey to take the heavyweight title away from Max Schmeling.
There was singing wood in 1933 at Belmont Park and Max Bayer over Primo Connera.
I went on skipping through the years, touching here and there for a few minutes to an hour at a time.
It was in early October 1938, about five hours after I'd left Mayor Roberts' house, before I realized what she had me doing.
I was making deposits and winning sure bets, just as those senile psychotics had done.
The ink on their bank books seemed fresh because it was fresh. It wasn't given a chance to oxidize.
The rate I was going, I'd be back at my own time in a few hours with $15,000 compound interest in cash.
But those old people had died of starvation somehow with all that cash in banks.
I didn't know how it happened or why.
But suddenly it occurred to me that I didn't want to be found dead in my hotel room.
So rather than make the deposit in 1938, I grabbed a cab and told the driver to step on it.
I got a mile away from the bank and then the cab suddenly disappeared.
I found myself in front of a counter at a lunch room.
The envelope instructed me to make a bet on the World Series.
There wasn't any way to get out of the range of the machine.
It picked me up at least five miles away from where I was supposed to be.
I came back a week later to get my winnings.
I was hungry so I got myself a hamburger and went out the door.
When I hit the sidewalk, it happened again.
Don't touch the cage yet, Mr. Weldon. I'll have to clear the charge.
Hey, what happened to my hamburger?
What?
The hamburger. I had it here. It's gone. I'm hungry.
I'll get you something to eat, Mr. Weldon, before your next trip.
Well, you've done pretty well for yourself, haven't you?
Yes, yes, I have. About 15,000.
I had ketchup on my sleeve. It's gone.
Mr. Weldon, I want to talk seriously with you.
Now you've seen part of what I'm doing.
Part?
My father was discharged from all his research and university connections
because he insisted in publishing his findings on the temporal field research.
All the conventional physicists explained that it was overwork
and recommended everything from hot bullion before retiring to psychoanalysis.
Well, possibly both of these might have been beneficial.
But the fact of the matter is that temporal field activities are quite true,
and you've seen proof.
Well, I suppose I have.
So it seemed just a question of money, although obviously I can get all I need now.
But sending people back through time to better ensure things like uranium...
It's a fair exchange. I pay well for service, don't I?
I suppose so.
But that isn't the most important thing.
I've been able to save things that would have been lost otherwise.
I've sent people back to find precious treasures that would have been destroyed or would have disappeared.
Like an El Greco painting?
Yes. And the original score of Mozart's magic flute that would have been burned in 1942,
and a Picasso miniature that would have been lost at sea in 52.
I have them all here.
Stolen?
No. Bought with money from the year itself at a fair price.
Well, Mr. Weldon, I sent you back because I've needed someone to work with me on a regular basis.
Someone who's faster and more alert than the old people I've hired till now.
Why old people?
It's a function of the field. You can't send somebody back to a year in which they didn't exist at all.
I'm hungry.
Please, Mr. Weldon, this is very important.
My father died trying to prove the validity of his field theory to conventional scientists,
and I don't intend to bother. We can become the most powerful people in the world.
I don't feel very powerful now. You haven't got a sandwich hanging around, have you?
I want to make you an offer, Mr. Weldon.
I need someone to help me expand the operation, plan the projects and research.
I chose you because I was afraid that you might hit on the truth by yourself.
Can I come out of this cage now?
Be careful. Don't touch the contacts. The field reacts on a random factor for at least an hour after it's cut off.
I'll be careful.
Tell me, Miss Roberts, why haven't you been able to go back to the time that your father was alive
and bring him back before he died?
Dead tissue can't be transported.
We tried it with mice and rabbits from a laboratory in 1941, and they just disappeared.
Like my hamburger.
Mr. Weldon, I assume that you're interested and that we can make our plans without using this revolver.
I hope so. Fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of money.
Of course, you were able to send those old people back a lot further.
Some of them as far back as 1880.
How long would they be gone? I mean, in subjective time.
Several weeks. Perhaps a month, though, more.
There's only one problem, Miss Roberts.
I'm sure we can work out any details.
Well, this one is a little hard to work out.
You see, I'm hungry. I haven't been this hungry since I got lost on a hunting trip and went without food for three days.
You see, you forget I've got an interest in this business
because they found some old people dead of malnutrition and $30,000 or so tucked away in their pockets.
They had been gone a month or more, and they had to eat during that time, didn't they?
When they came back, the food disappeared like my hamburger.
It disappeared all at once, all over their body.
In one fast jolt, they starved to death.
Oh, no, you don't understand. They just couldn't take the field transition.
They were too old, some of them, and they lied to me about their age to get the job.
Oh, no, you can't tell me that because I know how hungry I am.
And I was only gone about 12 hours. They were murdered.
Get back.
You know, they say a hungry man gets mighty desperate.
He'll do almost anything. Let go. Let go. Let go of it.
Oh! My arm.
Look out. Look out. The cage. The contact.
Ah!
She fell into that cage and disappeared before she hit the ground.
I didn't know what happened.
I know she said the field worked in a random factor, whatever that meant.
I called Lou Pate, and he came to the house just after the fire started.
Something went in the control panel, and it turned out to be a four-alarm fire before they got it under control.
There was nothing left of the machine.
There wasn't much left of the brownstone house.
Lou didn't believe the story I told him.
You mean there won't be any more of them?
No more senile psychotics starving to death with a bankroll in their hip pocket?
No, I told you, Lou.
Come on now, Mark. We get plenty more. We always have.
No, I'll bet you won't.
I'll bet you, Dala, there won't be another case like that.
I'll take that bet.
I lost the bet. There was one more case.
And perhaps it was the strangest one.
A woman was found wandering in Bryant Park just before she died of acute starvation.
One strange thing was she was young, not more than 30.
And the other was she had $17,000 stuffed in her pocketbook and a bullet wound in her arm,
the medical examiner said was at least two months old.
I guess that's what she meant by the random factor.
You have just heard X-1 presented by the National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine,
which this month features This Way to the Regress by Damon Knight.
The story of a man named Sullivan who strangely enough did not have a great future behind him,
but who was a great actor, a great actor, and a great actor,
and a great actor, and a great actor, and a great actor, and a great actor,
was Thydd Sullivan who strangely enough did not have a great future behind him would rather a great past ahead.
Galaxy Magazine on your news stand today.
In a moment, tonight's cast and a preview of next week's exciting drama.
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For the big things in your life, be ready with United States Savings Bonds.
Tonight by transcription, X-1 has brought to you The Old Die Rich, a story from the pages of Galaxy written by H.L. Gold and adapted for radio by Ernest Canoie.
Featured in the cast were Jim Bowles, Jan Miner, Bill Zuckert, Guy Rep, Wendell Holmes, Ralph Camargo, and Ivor Francis.
Your announcer, Fred Collins.
X-1 was directed by Bob Mauer and is an NBC Radio Network production.